


Chance Encounter

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M, Merry Christmas one and all!, giftfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He deliberately hadn’t told Lewis he’d be in Manchester for this conference. And now, by complete chance, Lewis has found him anyway. And, Christ, it’s good to see the man, even if it is reopening a world of hurt he’d thought was all in the past.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chance Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> A Christmas present for Lewis fandom.

With a weary stretch, James Hathaway gathers up his papers and, with a dutiful nod of appreciation to the presenter, leaves the classroom. How anyone could possibly deliver a paper on Hans Küng’s impact on modern Catholicism and make it so tedious is absolutely beyond him. 

At least it was the last session of the day. A pint is now a necessity, and then a taxi or bus to Rusholme for dinner, in preference to eating with the other conference attendees at the university. 

Two minutes after leaving his belongings in his room, James walks quickly out of the university grounds in search of a decent pub. He bypasses the Oxford – named for the street it's on in Manchester rather than the city he’s currently away from – due to the audible music as he approaches, and instead follows directions on his phone to The Yard at the Grafton Arms. The local craft beer is palatable, and he leans back in his chair, eyes closed, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere after a full day of presentations and discussion.

He’s abruptly startled out of his reverie a few minutes later. “James! What are you doing here?” 

He jerks his head around. “Sir!” It is Robbie Lewis, hair damp – it must have started raining – and wearing a familiar anorak over jeans and a sweatshirt. He’s carrying bags emblazoned with the names of national chain–stores – Christmas shopping, probably. Robbie Lewis, looking older and more harried than when James last saw him, at their mutual departure drinks nearly eighteen months ago.

“Ah, I’m not your boss any more, man. It’s just Robbie, all right?” Of course he should have remembered that; Lewis had signed with his first name the few emails he’d received from the man since he’d left Oxford. 

Lewis pulls out the chair opposite James, then hesitates. “Okay if I join you?”

“Erm… of course!” James frowns in puzzlement; why would Lewis think he wouldn’t be welcome? “Can I get you a pint? What would you prefer?”

“I can-” Lewis begins to protest, but James waves him away and heads to the bar. Apart from anything else, it gives him a minute or two to get his head straight after the shock of seeing Lewis after all this time. 

They’ve been in contact, of course, though it’s dwindled now to little more than brief and sporadic exchanges of emails. Lewis has never been one for long, newsy letters or emails, and James finds it difficult to talk about himself at the best of times. They tried occasional phone calls at first, but talking to Lewis when their lives had diverged in such a final manner wasn’t easy. Hearing Lewis talk cheerfully about his new grandson, and his daughter and her partner, and all the leisure and volunteer activities he was involved in, had just reinforced for James how easy it had been for his former boss to walk away from their partnership – and from what he’d thought had been their friendship. 

He deliberately hadn’t told Lewis he’d be in Manchester for this conference. And now, by complete chance, Lewis has found him anyway. And, Christ, it’s good to see the man, even if it is reopening a world of hurt he’d thought was all in the past.

The shock hits him all over again when he turns back from the bar, Lewis’s pint in hand. Just seeing the man for the second time, confirming that it’s really not his imagination... James has to pause for a second to catch his breath.

Lewis doesn’t seem to notice. As James returns and sets the glass on the table, Lewis smiles up at him. “Still can’t believe I just ran into you like this. What’re you doing here? Were you looking for me?”

“Erm, I don’t...” James frowns; why would Lewis think that?

“This is my local,” Lewis explains. “I live just around the corner.” He gestures at the bags. “Took the Metrolink into town – Christ, I hate Christmas shopping. Next time I’m doing it all online. Anyway, decided I could murder a pint before going home.”

“I’m here for a conference.” He’d better explain before Lewis has to ask him a third time. “At the university. Manchester, not UMIST or MMU,” he clarifies. “We’ve just finished for the day.”

“Conference, eh?” Lewis gives him a shrewd look. “Must’ve been planned for a while.”

“Erm... yes. Well, the conference has,” he amends, and takes a drink. His mouth’s dry. “I only got funding to go a week ago.”

Lewis just looks at him, one eyebrow faintly quirked, and James knows that expression so well. His explanation has been found wanting. 

Without his bidding, his hand snakes inside his jeans pocket, fumbling for the crumpled packet of fags in there before he remembers that he’s indoors. No smoking.

Lewis picks up his pint and takes a long drink, then slowly, deliberately puts the glass back on the table. It’s as if he’s getting ready to leave. “No reason you had to tell me you were comin’, I suppose.”

Oh, _fuck_. “No, I...” Lewis has clearly stopped listening; he’s starting to gather his purchases. “ _Robbie._ ” Lewis glances back. “I didn’t let you know because it’s almost Christmas. I knew you’d be busy with your family.” It at least has the virtue of being partly true.

Lewis studies him for a moment, then huffs. “Never too busy to see you, even if it’s only for a drink, you daft sod.”

James manages a smile. “It is good to see you.”

“Odd time of year for a conference, isn’t it? Two days before Christmas.”

He pulls a face. “Postgrads’ conference. We get a few days of cheap accommodation when no–one else would want to be away.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Doesn’t usually happen. Someone had the bright idea that research students needed the opportunity actually to deliver papers at conferences rather than getting relegated to poster sessions.” At Lewis’s frown, he explains, “You create a display of a few themes from your research and stand by it in the hope that someone will come and ask you about it. Usually it’s just the other postgrads who do.” 

“Doesn’t sound like this is much better,” Lewis comments. “You’re still just talking to each other.”

James smiles, rueful. “Precisely. But Joanne – Professor Pinnock – wanted me to go anyway. Apparently, she had some funds left in the budget, and she would have lost the money otherwise.”

“So are you giving a paper?” Lewis actually sounds interested, to James’s surprise; his former boss had rarely missed an opportunity to reveal his disdain for both academics and religion. “Wouldn’t mind sitting in if I could – even though I’m not a postgrad.”

“Sorry.” James shakes his head with a faint smile. “Mine was this morning.” And it was better–received than the afternoon’s sessions, though it’s true that the bar wasn’t set all that high.

“Probably wouldn’t have understood it anyway.” And there’s that half–amused, self–deprecating look James used to know so well, and he still knows how much of the truth of Robbie Lewis’s intelligence it hid. 

Two years ago, James would have facetiously offered to give Lewis a private repeat performance. Now, though... 

Fuck, since when have he and Lewis ever not been able to take the piss out of each other over and over?

But he knows the answer. Since Lewis decided, out of the blue, that he was retiring and walking away from their partnership without a backward glance.

And, yes, James could have handled it better. He hadn’t had to react petulantly, telling Lewis that he might have been thinking about leaving himself. He could have talked to Lewis, asked why he was thinking about retiring all of a sudden, instead of behaving as if the prospect meant nothing to him, and rushing off to St Gerard’s every chance he got. He’d even waved the hinted job offer from Joanna Pinnock under Lewis’s nose like a red rag to a bull – _See, you’re not the only one who has other options_. Only Lewis hadn’t taken the bait. He’d simply made clear that James should make up his own mind; had made no attempt to persuade him otherwise, apart from suggesting that there might – only _might_ , mind you – be an inspector vacancy once Lewis left.

Had his apparent lack of caring pushed Lewis, where he could perhaps have persuaded his boss had he shown interest in Lewis’s thought process? 

Maybe that’s true. But it’s too late to change anything now. They’ve both made, and acted on, their decisions. 

He picks up his pint and takes a long swallow. Then, looking at Lewis over the lip of his glass, he changes the subject. “How’s Jack?”

Lewis would talk about his grandson for hours, and all James has to do is nod, smile and interject an occasional response. It’s the perfect change of subject to keep the attention off himself.

Lewis nods. “He’s great. Look, James, do you have to go back to the conference for dinner? You could come to mine. I told you I live just around the corner.”

He wants to, so much it hurts. But Lewis has given him such an easy out, and wouldn’t it be far better for him if they part now? He’d been getting over it, moving on with his life, building a new career. He hadn’t thought about Robbie Lewis in weeks. Well, as long as he didn’t count the man being the first thought on his mind every morning...

Lewis’s expression changes; resigned, sad. “All right, James. Shouldn’t have pushed. It’s not as if you haven’t made it obvious you’re not interested in staying in touch.” He stands and extends a hand. “Have a good Christmas, man. It was good to see you.”

Automatically, James stands as well, taking Lewis’s hand. And that physical contact, skin to skin, is his undoing. 

This _is_ too much, seeing Lewis again. And so is letting him walk away a second time.

“I’d like to come back to yours.”

* * *

Lewis’s flat is in a modern building set in between 1880s terraced houses. Now that James sees it, he remembers Lewis telling him about it shortly after he’d moved up to Manchester. It was the fact that it was newly built that had appealed to his old boss: all new heating and appliances, and all maintenance covered in the rent. “Lived in an old terrace in Oxford when the kids were small. It was draughty and damp, and there was always something needed fixing. Never again.”

There’s a secure entrance to the building, which Lewis opens once James has stubbed out and disposed of his cigarette, and a lift inside, though Lewis leads the way up the stairs to the first floor. The flat’s roughly the same size as the last one Lewis had in Oxford, though James notices a second bedroom. “Thought I might have an occasional visitor,” Lewis says as James glances into the empty room. Laura Hobson, maybe? Whatever about Lewis leaving his partnership with James, it had surprised James that he’d walked away from Laura and what had seemed, a few months before Lewis’s retirement, to be a budding relationship.

Lewis leaves the shopping–bags in his own bedroom, and then leads the way into the small kitchen – in this flat, not connected to the living room. It’d be a bit tight for two people to work in together, James notes, and assumes that he’ll be dispatched to the living room, or that Lewis will pass him a beer and let him stand by the door.

But, instead, Lewis produces vegetables – “No mockery from you,” he cautions sternly – and a chopping–board and knife, and directs James to one end of the small countertop. While James works, Lewis warms a wok and cuts chicken into thin strips. He’s done this before, that much is obvious, and James wants to ask when he learned to cook. After all, ready meals and pub food were okay for him in Oxford.

But then, Lewis is retired now. Even a police pension doesn’t represent riches, and Lewis probably has more free time than he knows what to do with, even with his volunteering and time spent with his family.

There’s a small dining–table in the living room, and it’s a relief to move there once the food is ready; rubbing shoulders with Lewis over and over is almost more than he can take. Just as well he’ll be able to make his escape after a couple of hours, and then tomorrow, after the conference ends, he’s driving back to Oxford. 

This will be the last time he sees Robbie Lewis. 

And he doesn’t know if the churning in his stomach is relief or despair.

* * *

“Postgraduate? What’s that all about?” Lewis asks as they eat.

Oh. Right. He’d never got around to telling Lewis, had he?

There hadn’t been a job after all. James only had a BA, after all, and Joanne Pinnock hadn’t been able to persuade the new Vice–Regent, Caroline Hope, to appoint him as a research fellow with such a thin academic CV. The best Hope had offered had been a scholarship as a research postgraduate; an MPhil, with the possibility of transferring to a PhD if his first year’s work was good enough. James’s private opinion on the matter was that – despite the fact that he and Lewis had saved her life, and that he was bound by strict confidentiality in any case – Hope was uncomfortable knowing that he was aware of the truth about her, and had wanted him to decline. He hadn’t, and the two of them more or less avoided each other.

He explains this to Lewis, adding the fact that he’d switched to the PhD register during the summer and was hoping to have a full draft of his thesis complete by early autumn next year. 

“Two years? That’s fast, even for you.” The _cleverclogs_ look Lewis gives him is painfully familiar. James has to glance down at his food before he speaks.

“It’ll only be a first draft. That’ll get ripped to shreds, no doubt, and then I’ll have to write the thing all over again.”

Lewis snorts. “Do it right the first time and you wouldn’t have to.”

When did he last laugh out loud? When he’s finally got himself back together, he says, “It’s really not quite as simple as that.”

“Nothing ever was for you. You were still better than anyone else I ever worked with.” No mockery present now, the blue gaze meeting James’s across the table is as sincere as he’s ever seen from Lewis. 

He can feel the flush creeping up his neck and face. “If I was, it was your mentorship that made me so.” He absolutely means that. James isn’t remotely modest about his intellect. He’s never had reason to be, and in any case experience has shown him that self–deprecation isn’t appreciated. 

Lewis shrugs faintly. “We made a good team. The best.” He starts to gather the plates.

“Surely that was you and Morse?” James collects the empty glasses and follows Lewis to the kitchen.

Lewis pauses by the sink. “Morse was a genius. But I was never as clever as you were when I was a sergeant. He was still running rings around me after I’d passed me inspector’s exams.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” 

Lewis arches an eyebrow. “You’re just biased, man. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be running the place at St Gerard’s soon enough. I’ll be able to say I knew Professor Vice–Regent Hathaway when he was a wet–behind–the–ears copper who blushed at the mere mention of sex.”

It seems he still blushes at the mere mention of sex – well, at least when it’s Lewis mentioning it. _Fuck._

His face is abruptly burning up. He couldn’t have chosen a different epithet? “Um... loo?”

Lewis waves him along the hallway. “Between the bedrooms. You saw it on the way in.”

“Oh, right.” He makes his escape, and hides in the bathroom until his colour’s back to normal. 

When he returns, Lewis has made coffee and taken it through to the living room. Seated on the couch this time – and James takes care to leave a decent distance between himself and Lewis, for his own sanity – his gaze is caught by a flash of green and gold. “Since when do you have Christmas decorations?” Such as they are; a tiny tree atop a stool, and a couple of strings of tinsel. 

Lewis huffs. “It’s not for me. Lyn’d complain if I didn’t. Says she can’t bring Jack over here if Granddad doesn’t believe in Christmas.”

“Can’t disillusion the kids too early, I suppose.” James grins. 

Lewis grins back. “Keep telling her Jack’s too young to notice, but she’ll have none of it.”

It’s starting to feel as if he and Lewis have never been apart. This is dangerous. But it’s also brilliant, and James doesn’t want to leave. Which, of course, is a clear signal that he must. 

When he’s finished his coffee, he promises himself. And until then... well, this at least is a better goodbye than the over–formal, stiff handshake they exchanged outside the White Horse eighteen months ago.

* * *

“Time I headed back. The hours at this conference are almost as bad as the police – first session starts at eight.”

Lewis stands as well. “What time d’you finish tomorrow?”

“Just after noon.” James follows Lewis towards the door, picking up his coat on the way. “There’s a final plenary over lunch, and then I’ll have the joy of Christmas Eve traffic on the M56 and M6.”

“Birmingham.” Lewis shudders. “Don’t miss that journey one bit.” He hesitates in reaching for the door. “Look, d’you have any arrangements for Christmas? Anyone expecting you back in Oxford?”

James answers without thinking of the consequences. “Things haven’t changed quite that much since you left, si– Robbie.”

“Spend Christmas here, then.” Lewis’s response is instant. “If you’ve nothing to rush back for, why not? I’ve got the spare room, an’ Lyn won’t mind an extra for Christmas dinner. She’s always been disappointed she didn’t get to meet you when we were working together.”

“I... I couldn’t possibly intrude...” How did he not see that coming? Why would Lewis even want him to stay? 

“It’s not intruding when you’re invited, man.” 

He wants to, so much – but that could only lead to disaster. And then Lewis presses his hand on James’s forearm, warming him even through two layers of fabric. “If you’d rather not, that’s fine – s’pose there’s no reason you’d want to spend Christmas with a pensioner an’ people you’ve never met.” The understanding in Lewis’s voice would have destroyed his resolve on its own, but on top of that there’s disappointment in the man’s eyes as he turns to unlock the door.

Even after the gulf there’s been between them since the day Lewis first mentioned early retirement, the idea of disappointing Lewis is something James is simply unable to contemplate.

“No, no, I’d like to, if you’re sure your daughter won’t mind. It’s very kind of you.”

“Told you, Lyn wants to meet you anyway. Good! Give me a call when you’re finished at the university and we’ll meet up.” Lewis opens the door. “Night, then. See you tomorrow.”

* * *

Sleep is elusive. Not for the first time, of course; James has suffered periods of insomnia for many years. The last bout was also Lewis–related; he didn’t sleep at all the night before their final day on the job, and only fitfully for up to a week after Lewis left Oxford.

Is he doing the right thing? Should he just text Lewis tomorrow and say he has to go back to Oxford after all? But that’s the coward’s way out, even if playing the coward isn’t that unusual a role for James. It’s also not fair. He’s made a commitment, and Lewis will be acting on it, talking to Lyn and probably also getting the spare bedroom ready for James. 

And, damn it, can’t he allow himself just two days? He’s already going to have to get Lewis out of his system a second time after this evening anyway. Staying for Christmas won’t make much difference.

He phones Lewis as soon as he’s checked out of the conference centre, but says he won’t be ready to meet until later. He can’t come to Lewis’s, let alone Lyn’s, empty–handed. Shopping on Christmas Eve won’t be anything but nightmarish, but needs must.

The Trafford Centre and the city centre equally belong in the seventh circle of hell as far as James is concerned, but the Trafford is a slightly better option: everything’s under one roof and at least there is parking, even if he’ll most likely end up half a mile away from the mall entrance. He already knows what he wants for Lewis. His old boss had mentioned, while they’d walked to the flat yesterday evening, that both Lyn and his doctor have been nagging him about getting more exercise and keeping an eye on his heart rate – though of course Lewis protests that his heart is fine and always has been. There’s a new fitness tracker that’s getting good reviews, and James has already checked stock levels at a couple of electronics shops in the mall. Lyn, Tim and Jack will be a bit trickier, but he has some ideas.

It’s almost five when he finally pulls up outside Lewis’s building, and he is a man in dire need of a drink. Lewis meets him at the door, greeting him with a warm hand on his back; James has to fight not to lean into the man’s touch. “Glad you made it at last. You’re looking frazzled. What’ve you been up to?”

“Shopping.” He holds up the fruits of his labours. “Thought I’d better not leave them in the car.”

Lewis shakes his head. “You know you didn’t have to.” As if he was going to come empty–handed. He doesn’t comment, and follows Lewis inside. 

“There’s a bottle or two in the fridge with your name on them,” Lewis informs him. “Thought we’d order takeaway tonight. Indian or Chinese?”

“Indian. Somewhere in Rusholme, please?”

“Got all the menus in the kitchen. You still like lamb bhuna?”

James pauses at the threshold of the tiny spare bedroom – which, he sees, has been made up, and there are folded towels on the bed. “Poppadums and cucumber raita as well as rice and naan?”

“Naturally.” Lewis grins and leaves him to it.

By the time James walks into the living room, the food is ordered and two bottles of local bitter are on the coffee–table, along with glasses. Lewis joining him on the couch a moment or two later brings such a wave of nostalgia that James has to take a long breath to calm himself. If he could go back to that day in the cloisters at St Gerard’s, Lewis telling him that Lyn was pregnant and that was why he was seriously considering early retirement... oh, he’d handle it so differently. No idiotic jokes about Lewis being a granddad; no, he’d do everything he could to persuade Lewis that he could see plenty of his daughter and grandson and still be a copper. That he was in excellent physical condition for his age and not even close to being a heart–attack risk. That James simply couldn’t imagine being a copper without him. 

But he’d said none of that, and Lewis had retired, and this is the way things are now. 

It’s an evening to remember, all the same. The food is excellent, and the company all the more precious. He and Robbie Lewis slumped on the sofa – the same red sofa from Lewis’s flat in Oxford, with the same well–worn cushions that seem sloped just in the right way to tilt them towards each other until their shoulders are pressed together. James is vaguely aware of the telly punctuating their desultory conversation with sound and images, but he’s not paying attention. His entire focus is that solid body, that Geordie accent, and Lewis’s warmth and humour and the fact of his _presence_.

Maybe he could make more of an effort to stay in touch. Lewis did seem pleased to see him, after all. Maybe having some contact with Lewis, even through occasional emails and phone calls, is better than none, even if he can’t have the man back in his life the way they used to be. 

“Oi!” A sharp dig against his side jolts him out of his thoughts. Lewis is giving him a long–suffering glare; another of those so–familiar and much–missed expressions. “I know I’ve let you get out of the habit of responding to me scintillating conversation, but you could at least make an effort.”

“Sorry.” James gives Lewis a beatific smile. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard your voice. I’ve got out of the habit of interpreting your accent. Might need subtitles.”

“Sod.” But Lewis laughs, and suddenly they’re taking the piss out of each other over and over, and it’s just like old times.

* * *

They take a taxi over to Lyn’s house shortly before noon on Christmas Day. They’re welcomed into a house festooned with Christmas decorations, and what Lyn calls organised chaos. Lewis immediately takes charge of Jack, insisting that he and James will take the boy for a walk in his pushchair to give Lyn and Tim an opportunity to focus on dinner preparations. 

Lewis is already wearing his fitness tracker, and stops every few yards to check his steps. After the fourth time, James sighs. “Give me your phone.”

Lewis raises an indignant eyebrow, but hands it over anyway. Within seconds, James has installed the app that goes with the device and set it up with Lewis’s details. “Here. Now you don’t need to keep digging it out of your trousers.”

“Oi! How’d you even get into my phone to install that thing?”

James stands, head tilted, just looking at Lewis, waiting.

“I’ve changed my password since you knew it, cleverclogs. So...?”

“Yeah. You changed the final digit, just as you always did every three months. I just counted.”

Lewis sighs. “Jack, I’m just gonna warn you now: your Uncle James is a right cocky sod an’ a know–it–all.”

 _Uncle James?_ “And your granddad, Jack, is a crafty bugger who never misses a trick. You won’t get away with anything when he’s around.”

“Which is how it should be,” Lewis adds sternly. He claps a hand to James’s back. “Come on. Won’t get me ten thousand steps standing here nattering with you, will I?”

“Well, Lyn said we should be back in no more than half an hour, so at best I’d say that’ll give you three thousand. But kudos for effort,” James points out with a smirk.

“An’ no kudos to you for cheek,” Lewis counters, but he’s grinning even as he shakes his head and carries on walking.

Dinner is delicious and plentiful, and preceded by Christmas crackers, from which Lyn makes them wear the paper hats. Lewis looks endearingly ridiculous in his green hat, and James winds him up by taking a photo on his phone. It’s the only photo he has of Lewis, and no matter how much the man complains it won’t be deleted.

Jack is cranky and demanding attention by the time everyone’s finished eating, so James helps Lyn clear away while Robbie and Tim take Jack out into the garden to burn off some excess energy. In the kitchen, James rinses plates and passes them to Lyn to load in the dishwasher.

“Thank you for being so welcoming, Lyn. I know what an imposition my being here at Christmas must be, especially with virtually no notice.”

“You’re joking!” Lyn shakes her head, glancing up at James with a smile. “It’s so lovely to meet you at last,” she says, sounding utterly genuine. She takes the next dish from him and turns back to her task. “It’s not just that I’ve heard so much about you from Dad – mostly good, I promise! It’s that... well, I haven’t seen him so happy in ages.”

James smiles wryly. “Nothing to do with me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Now you really are joking.” Lyn straightens and looks straight at James with a shrewd expression so like her father’s. “He’s bored, James. Yes, he likes being close to us, but – well, he’d never say anything to me, probably because I’m the one who pushed him, but I think he regrets retiring. But more than that, he misses you. And don’t look like that.” James hadn’t thought he’d let his scepticism show. “He does. He still mentions you sometimes – not as much as he used to, but when he does it’s obvious how much he misses you. I know he’d hoped at first that you’d come and visit him sometimes. You should have heard him on the phone when he called to say you were here.” 

What? Was that what Lewis had meant when he’d said he’d hoped to have guests? Then why had he never actually _asked_ James to come up?

Though James could have suggested it, too. He could have told Lewis he was coming to Manchester this week, instead of letting wounded feelings and unfulfilled longing for what he always knew he could never have keep him silent.

Lyn’s still watching him, waiting for a reaction, apparently. James shakes his head. “I didn't realise.”

“Hah.” Lyn shakes her head, faintly despairing. “Men. You’re all the same. How on earth did you two manage to work together for five years? It’s a wonder you ever managed to communicate with each other.”

James dips his head, smiling ruefully and conceding the point. “Have you ever met Laura Hobson? She said more or less the same thing to me on multiple occasions.”

“And to me.” James’s head jerks up. Lewis is standing in the doorway. “Can you spare James, Lyn? Leave all that – we’ll sort it when we get back.”

“Erm... where are we going?” It’s not that he minds Lewis commandeering his company; he’d just like to have some indication of why. Not to mention how much of his and Lyn’s conversation Lewis actually overheard.

“For a walk.” Lewis’s tone is deceptively light. “Like you said, I only got three thousand steps earlier. Got seven thousand more to go.”

James passes Lyn the final couple of plates, then dries his hands. “I didn’t know I was committing to accompanying you on your daily exercise, Robbie.”

“You need it as much as I do.” In the hall, Lewis throws his coat at him. “Too much sitting down in this new student existence of yours, you have.”

That’s certainly true. After the first couple of months, when James realised his cardiovascular fitness was nothing like it had been, he’d made a point of running three or four miles every morning before going to the library. It’s still less exercise than he got as a copper, but it’s something.

“You know,” he says as he accompanies Lewis out of the house, “you could just add me as a friend on your app. I’ll be able to see your activity and cheer you on.”

“Mock me, you mean,” Lewis grumbles, and sets off down the road.

* * *

“I do miss you.” 

They’re in a park about half a mile from Lyn’s home, and Lewis has been silent since leaving the house until just now.

For an instant, James forgets to breathe. Yes, Lyn had told him her dad missed him, but he hadn’t quite been able to believe her. He turns to look at Lewis, who’s watching him, gaze steady and... hopeful?

“I...” He swallows. “I miss you too. I missed you as soon as you left.”

Lewis shakes his head. “Then why didn’t you stay in touch, you daft sod?”

James fumbles with his cigarette packet, looking away. The answer’s just too complex and too personal.

A hand lands on his arm. “No good at the long–distance thing? Suppose that applies to both of us.”

He turns back to Lewis, intending to agree; it’s at least partly true. But the sincerity and concern in Lewis’s gaze makes the words stick in his throat. The hand on his arm tightens. “James?”

His gaze drops. “I never wanted you to retire in the first place.”

Lewis’s hand falls away. “So, what? You were punishing me?” 

James backs away, using lighting a cigarette as an excuse to delay answering. Finally, he says, “Not entirely.”

“What, then?” 

James shakes his head and walks towards a tree a few yards away, leaning against the trunk and smoking with jerky movements. Christ, he’s made a mess of this. Now he looks like a petulant bloody teenager, cutting off his nose to spite his face.

As he could have anticipated, Lewis comes to join him, leaning against the tree with his shoulder pressed to James’s, and again James has to struggle against his inclination to lean closer still. “Talk to me, man. I refuse to have another bloody eighteen months of near–silence once you go home.”

“No.” He turns to look at Lewis, who’s watching him with worry and frustration on his face. “I’ll do better this time, I promise.”

“Good to know.” Lewis nods once. “But I still don’t understand why it was so hard before.” James just looks at him, willing him either to drop the question or – if he has to – to figure it out himself.

After a pause, Lewis says, “I thought you were keen on St Gerard’s Hall and the research job. Didn’t much fancy staying on without you.”

James takes a drag on his cigarette. “St Gerard’s was only an option if you didn’t stay.”

“Ah.” Lewis elbows him gently. “Should’ve said, soft lad.” James doesn’t reply. He knows he’s being watched, though. “Couldn’t?” Lewis prompts.

“Couldn’t,” he agrees. “Couldn’t after you left, either.”

Because, knowing Lewis wanted to leave, he couldn’t ask him to stay. Because, knowing how easily Lewis was able to walk away from him, he couldn’t tell Lewis how difficult it was for James to do the same. 

And absolutely couldn’t explain how even occasional contact from a distance of a hundred and fifty–odd miles was an aching reminder of how things used to be, and would never be again. 

The extended silence makes him glance around at Lewis, and then he knows he doesn’t need to say anything. His old governor knows.

Lewis pulls a face, a long–suffering grimace. “Lyn’s right about something else, too. I am bored.” James nods, unsure what Lewis wants him to say. “And you – d’you really want to be an academic tosser with a PhD?” 

He exhales, long and hard. “I thought I did.” He starts walking again, and Lewis falls into step beside him. “I do enjoy the reading. The learning. But...” Lewis gives him an encouraging nod. “The politics, though. Far, far worse than police politics ever were.”

Lewis snorts. “Could’ve told you that.”

“Could’ve told myself that. How many cases did we investigate involving the university? I suppose I just thought, as a lowly research student, I wouldn’t encounter it. Or, if I observed any of it, I could ignore it. But if this is supposed to be my future...”

His elbow’s gently jogged. “Would’ve been your future in the force too. If you’d stayed and gone for inspector, I mean. Can’t avoid it.”

James stops walking abruptly. “What do you want to do? You said you’re bored, and – well, it sounds as if you have something in mind.”

“I do, as it happens.” Lewis turns to face him. “Innocent’s been in touch.” James’s eyes widen. “Not completely out of the blue – I’ve had almost as many emails from her as I have from you, which is to say hardly any, but a few.”

James ignores the dig. “What did she want?” Couldn’t possibly be what he’s starting to suspect?

“Apparently, she’s lost a couple of mid–ranking and senior officers recently. Two DIs – one promoted, one transferred – and a sergeant who will apparently soon be making an appearance on the wrong side of a courtroom.”

“Oops.” James stifles a grin. “Anyone we know?”

“She didn’t say. Wouldn’t be too hard to find out. Anyway.” Lewis raises an eyebrow. “She’s asked if I’d consider coming back. As a consultant, she says, on a contract – because I’m retired, I can’t come back in a permanent position. But the benefit of the contract is that I don’t have to go through the full recruitment process again, and my hours can be flexible if I want.”

“And you’re considering it.” James doesn’t need to borrow Lewis’s fitness tracker to tell him his heart–rate is speeding up. 

“Thinking about it.” Lewis tugs at his earlobe. “Thing is, coming back to Oxford – well, I did think it’d have the advantage of bein’ able to go for a pint with you now and then, but then I didn’t know if you’d want to. And, well, like you said – bein’ in the force without you wouldn’t have felt right.”

James hopes his voice is calm and steady. “Might she be looking for a new sergeant as well?”

“ _I_ would be. Fussy about who I work with, I am. Any bagman I have would have high standards to live up to.”

“Yes.” James starts to walk again. “Perhaps... perhaps I should email her. Express an interest?”

Lewis’s hand comes to rest against his shoulder–blades. “Hmm. I’d be okay with that – on two conditions, mind.” James gives him a questioning glance. “If it’s what you really want, and not just because I’d like it – and as long as you start preparing for promotion. Y’can’t stay a sergeant for ever,” Lewis adds, a stern note to his voice. “An’ I will retire again at some point. You know that. And when I do, I’d like to know that you’re running your own show, not havin’ to break in a new governor.”

That’s a persuasive argument, which merits consideration. “And when you retire again, then what? You’ll move back to Manchester?”

“Nah. Manchester’s fine, but it’s not home, y’know? I know I used to moan about Oxford sometimes, but I’d lived there for thirty years. Was thinking, if I did go back to the police, I’d buy a house rather than rent.”

“Yeah?” James glances across at Lewis again. “I’d need to look for somewhere too, if I resign my studentship.” He pulls a face. “I’d have to work the timing out, or I could end up homeless.”

“A bit strapped for cash, too, I’d imagine.” Lewis shrugs. “S’pose I could put up with a temporary tenant. You could cook and clean in lieu of rent.” He gives James a wicked grin. “Do me ironing too.”

“So...” James barely dares say it, in case Lewis announces that he was just winding James up all along. “We’re going to do this, then? Reapply to the force? Work together again?”

The hand against his back presses more firmly, and James is yielding to his need to move closer to Lewis, to let the touch become almost an embrace, before he realises it and draws away again. “We are.” Lewis sounds almost as pleased about it as James is, and a significant weight lifts from inside him. “Now, best get back to Lyn’s before she thinks we don’t want any tea.”

* * *

Back at Robbie’s later, they’ve planned their mutual approaches to Innocent, looked up houses for sale on estate agent websites and discussed the idea of James perhaps becoming a permanent tenant, if they can do it without contravening any conflict of interest policies.

Robbie’s been watching James all evening. At first, while they were still at Lyn’s, it was barely perceptible, but since they’ve been back in the flat it’s been much more obvious. It’s not just a _happy you’re here_ look. There’s something shrewd and assessing about the way Robbie is studying him, and it’s making James wary.

“Have I got part of a Brussels sprout caught between my teeth?” he asks finally.

Robbie ignores the question. “It’s not just been about missing me on the job, has it, James?”

His palms are sweating, his heart pounding, but he manages to control his voice. “What do you mean?”

“Might be a pensioner, but I’m not senile, James. You want more than to be my colleague, don’t you?”

“I...” He swallows and looks down at his hands, twisting in his lap. He could try to lie his way out of this, but he’d sworn after Crevecoeur that he’d never lie to Lewis again. And the alternative of refusing to acknowledge the question won’t work either; Robbie won’t let this one go. “It doesn’t matter,” he says finally.

“It matters.” Oh, _fuck_ , this is it. Robbie’s going to say that none of what they’d planned can happen, not in the circumstances. “James.” A large, warm hand is suddenly lying on top of his two, preventing him fidgeting. “Look at me.”

Slowly, James turns and looks at Robbie, who’s watching him with concern – and a depth of caring James has never known from anyone before. 

Robbie reaches his free hand up to cup the side of James’s face. “This is all new to me, canny lad, but I’m willing to give it a try.”

James almost doesn’t dare to breathe, for fear of breaking whatever spell’s on the two of them. “Why...” His throat’s suddenly dry. “Why on earth would you want to?”

Robbie doesn’t drop his gaze, though his eyes are, briefly, sad. “I lost one person I loved, an’ it took me years to begin to get over her. Then I lost you. I won’t risk losing you again.”

James is still struggling for a response when Robbie leans closer and kisses him. 

The touch of Robbie’s lips sends a shiver through him. He’s too slow to respond; Robbie’s already pulling back before he’s gathered his wits and tried to return the kiss, and he can’t prevent the low whimper of protest. But Robbie’s just shifting position and sliding his hand around to the back of James’s head before leaning in for another kiss.

By the time they pull apart, James’s hair is a spiky mess and Robbie’s got stubble–rash. But the butterflies are still there in James’s stomach. “So – you gave it a try,” he manages to say.

“Yep, I did.” Robbie’s expression gives nothing away.

“It’s okay – I mean, you tried and I really appreciate it. We can just forget–”

“Christ, you can be an oblivious sod sometimes!” Robbie shakes his head, mock-despairing. “I don’t kiss someone like that and want to forget it.”

Oh, he’s been had. “Bastard.”

Robbie grins. “Well, considerin’ I’m the bastard whose bed you might get to share one of these days, maybe you’ll want to reconsider callin’ me that?”

“Oh, well, in that case I’ll call you anything you want!” He reaches for Robbie and brushes several tiny kisses around his mouth and jaw. “O great, talented and intuitive detective...”

“Yeah, yeah.” Robbie shuts James up effectively by kissing him again, and then sits back, gripping James’s hand. “I’m just bloody glad you were in the Yard the other day, pet.”

“Me too.” And James silently thanks the author of that paper on Küng; if it hadn’t been so terminally boring he might never have been driven to seek sanctuary away from the conference. “Best Christmas present ever.”

Robbie reaches for his glass, tucking James into his side as he relaxes back into the couch again. “I’ll drink to that.”

* * *


End file.
